


Shoot Your Shot

by rogueshadows



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Armor Kink, Blow Jobs, Bounty Hunters, Bruises, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, First Kiss, M/M, Minor Cassian Andor/Original Male Character(s), Pre-Canon, Rough Sex, Smut, Submissive Cassian Andor, Touch-Starved, Under-negotiated Kink, Undercover Missions, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Well He's Trying to Be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29172165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogueshadows/pseuds/rogueshadows
Summary: Cassian wishes he could chalk the unsubtle figure up to someone else’s problem, to really lean into his starry-eyed act and focus on the mark currently retrieving drinks. Cassian knows better though, catches the way the Mandalorian’s helmet swivels after the man and knows it means trouble that Cassian will have to diffuse.(Cassian's mission intersects with Din's bounty and things go far differently than either of them had planned.)
Relationships: Cassian Andor/Din Djarin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [robotboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/gifts).



> Thanks to ANTchan for beta'ing this mess and to robotboy for encouraging me to actually write it! Dedicated to everyone who has written for this tiny angsty rare pair! :D
> 
> Warning: Cassian is undercover and his mark is shitty and possessive towards him. Thankfully he isn't around for very long! Also Cassian... has some definite kinks... mind the tags in general.

**City of Cinnagar — Empress Teta — 5 BBY**

In the flash of lights and thrum of music filling the packed club, one would think a bounty hunter would make use of the atmosphere to go unnoticed. It’s what Cassian would do at least, what he has done countless times to get a mark alone. Apparently, the Mandalorian currently circling the edges of the club puts little value in such strategy, the light of the dancefloor reflecting off his helmet like a beacon. His posture dares anyone to question his presence, but still, he doesn’t approach the bar. Alone and without a drink in his hand, he stands out even more. 

Cassian wishes he could chalk the unsubtle figure up to someone else’s problem, to really lean into his starry-eyed act and focus on the mark currently retrieving drinks. Cassian knows better though, catches the way the Mandalorian’s helmet swivels after the man and knows it means trouble that Cassian will have to diffuse.

The mark in question is detestable in more ways than one. Anzar Vrab; a mining baron who traded in slaves on the side, all in supply of the Empire. It was more than enough of a reputation to earn him a bounty, from someone on the side of the Alliance or even one of his own hungry competitors. Any other night Cassian wouldn’t care if the man got taken out, but right now, with him sitting on the details of a new installation his resources helped to build, Cassian needs him alive. Long enough to convince the man of his cover story and worm his way beneath his defenses, something that would be easy enough if Cassian played into his ego just right. To Anzar, Cassian was Rik, a bright-eyed trophy looking for an older man to take care of him, turned on by power and willing to do anything just for a hint of its shine.

Keeping that desperate act convincing came easy, Cassian fueled by enough loathing to turn the emotion into something else entirely, the kind of lust that always left these sort of monsters salivating after his attention. It was meant to be a simple night, drinking until the man’s tongue loosened enough to let things spill, taking him back to some glitzed out hotel room to finish the act. The Mandalorian was going to interfere with all that, the kind of distraction that could make or break a mission. His presence is already affecting Cassian, shifting his focus from where it should be. When Cassian fails to notice Anzar’s return with their drinks until there’s a hand at his elbow, he internally curses himself for getting so caught up. 

“Hope no one else has caught your eye,” Anzar drawls, tightening his grip on Cassian’s elbow so it's just on the teasing edge of painful. It’s all part of the show, the very thing he’d assume someone like Rik would go for. Cassian lets out a laugh that doesn’t suit him at all, simpering as he shakes his head.

“Of course not,” Cassian angles himself just right, pressing even closer into the man’s space, reaching out a hand to trail along his chest. “I was just thinking the same, hoping that the bartender wasn’t taking their time just to steal you away.”

“I’d never go for someone so _common_ with such a gem waiting for me,” Anzar promises with a laugh, hand shifting from Cassian’s elbow to rest at his hip instead. “I hadn’t taken you for such a jealous thing.”

“I know, not very becoming, is it?” Cassian plays up the coyness. “A man like you could have anyone, as many people as you want with a snap of your fingers, I’d bet.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Anzar whispers close and low, tightening his hold on Cassian. “I can be possessive too.”

“I like the sound of that,” Cassian says, earning him a glinting smile, like a nexu setting sights on easy prey. 

The Mandalorian is still present in Cassian’s periphery, glinting just as fiercely in the light, a threat of a different sort entirely that lets Cassian know this will be a long night unless he manages to nip it in the bud. He can’t risk rushing anything, knowing that the teasing and showing off in public is half of the fun for Anzar’s type. He grits his smile and forces his laughter doubly, hanging on every word, slowly eking out more details about Anzar’s work. Not enough to get anywhere with, but closer, with each eager brush of Anzar’s hand over his thigh.

He can tell the exact moment when the Mandalorian loses patience with their waiting game, glancing over as the armored figure begins to stalk through the press of bodies from his place on the edge of the dancefloor. Cassian is over apologetic as he excuses himself from Anzar’s company, promising he won't be long in the fresher. Cassian starts the countdown in his head, taking the best route he can through the room that won't cause suspicion, thankful for the coverage of the crowd. Cassian meets the Mandalorian in the center, cutting him off from the mark, reaching out to grasp his arm and lean close. The Mandalorian catches Cassian's wrist on instinct, gripping it tight.

"I'm not here for you," the Mandalorian says, just loud enough to be heard above the music without calling too much attention. "I suggest you don't try anything stupid." Cassian doesn't struggle in the hold, leaning in close enough to be heard through the man’s helmet. He keeps the words as neutral as he can.

"I know who you're here for and I don't care. Word of advice, try another night."

"I work on my own terms." The Mandalorian lets him go, moving to press past when Cassian blocks him. Cassian can’t afford the attention their conversation draws from the dancers around them, and certainly can’t afford the waste of time.

“Please,” Cassian tries instead, leaning in, still pretending to be a flirt for the crowd's sake. “Can we discuss this outside? A fight here won’t do either of us any favors.”

The shift of the Mandalorian's shoulders might be imperceptible to the untrained eye, but to Cassian it screams frustration, the feeling echoed in the figure's sharp nod and turn towards the back door without another word. Cassian follows him, making his way through the crowd with a little less ease. The armor seems to have the ability to discourage anyone in the Mandalorian’s path from obstructing him. 

When they reach the alley, Cassian’s eyes do a quick sweep over the space, relieved to find it empty. The feeling only lasts a bare moment before the Mandalorian is pushing Cassian back against the door, the vambrace suddenly pressed at his throat making it hard to speak. Cassian has to act quickly, just to keep his breath, bringing his hands up around the man’s arm to discourage further pressure. If he went back with bruises at his throat, the charade would be through.

“Wait,” Cassian tries, putting as much desperation into the word as he can, masking his rage into something more worthy of sympathy. “We’re on the same side here.”

It does the trick, the Mandalorian easing off the pressure minutely, enough that Cassian can breathe a bit easier. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“We’re both here for Anzar Vrab,” Cassian insists, testing the waters to see how much he’ll have to give in exchange for fair consideration. 

“You’re no bounty hunter.”

“Not exactly,” Cassian says, hoping to pique the man’s interest enough that he’ll stall further, letting Cassian work out the best way to go about this. Killing him was an impossibility Cassian didn’t dare risk trying, taking stock of the man’s enviable weaponry in comparison to the concealed blade slipped into Cassian’s boot. “Listen, I don’t care what happens to Vrab, not in the long run—”

“Then you won’t care if I stop wasting time and get back to my job.”

The Mandalorian shoves Cassian away, fed up with waiting, and that's when Cassian gives up on diplomacy, relying on his training as he moves to stop the man from leaving. Cassian’s not used to fighting people with so many defenses, the plastisteel of stormtrooper nothing in comparison to the unyielding metal Cassian catches the edge of in his haste to take the Mandalorian down. 

Cassian gets in a few good hits, using everything he has to grapple with the man, a small panicked part of him still keeping track of the amount of time this is taking and the kind of risk he’s putting on himself if he even does make it back inside. Vrab would be pissed for the delay, Cassian can only hope he’s still looking to take it out on him rather than the next pretty thing that catches his eye. Whatever he had in mind couldn’t be harder to fight off than the man currently blocking his shots so deftly. Cassian doesn’t even bother going for his knife, with little confidence of striking a vulnerable enough point to stop the Mandalorian completely. Cassian can’t go back into the club if he gets blood all over himself anyway.

They’re not evenly matched, not by a long shot, but for all his fierceness the Mandalorian seems to hold back, pinning Cassian to the ground again merely to keep him still when he could easily crush him. The weight and the sheer sturdiness of the Mandalorian sets something burning in Cassian’s chest, even as he tries to dislodge the man above him, making Cassian wish they’d met under more sordid circumstances. Cassian curses his miswired impulses, trying to keep focus and gain some leverage against the man.

“We don’t have to do this,” the Mandalorian insists once again, the words showing a level of patient assurance that rankles Cassian even more. 

“Tomorrow. I’ll line up the kriffing shot for you. Trust me, my people want him gone just as badly as whoever hired you. If it’s about credits we have resources, just walk away for now.”

“I don’t take orders and I don’t want to negotiate. I came here for a simple job.”

“Kill me then. I’m not the one complicating things,” Cassian growls. The words make Mandalorian shift back slightly, some curiosity finally winning out over the man’s stubborn willingness to fight.

“It means that much to you?” the Mandalorian asks, reluctance coloring the words. The compassion behind them was unearned and only too easy for Cassian to exploit.

"What do you think?" Cassian sighs, fixing his eyes on the helmet's t-visor, certain of the eyes behind it meeting his own. The pressure the Mandalorian is exerting on Cassian lessens even more, the distraction allowing Cassian to catch the Mandalorian off guard with his next move. 

Using his weight and the grip of a leg round the back of the Mandalorian’s thigh, Cassian rolls them over, reversing their positions to pin the Mandalorian down instead. The Mandalorian bucks up against him and Cassian uses his forearm to press down against the Mandalorians throat, a pointed echo of the move that the Mandalorian had used on him before. With the wind knocked out of him the Mandalorian only falters for a moment, reaching up to try and pry Cassian’s arm away. 

Cassian presses too close and the Mandalorian tries to headbutt him, a move that would surely leave him reeling if it landed, and Cassian huffs, reaching up to remove the helmet and the threat it carries. Maybe if he can look the man in the eyes, just to get a better read, then Cassian might be able to figure out a better way to play this. 

"Don't," the Mandalorian manages to get out, with a pleading edge to the word that Cassian hadn’t anticipated by a long shot. The Mandalorian stops struggling completely, the grip on Cassian's wrists the only pressure that remains as he goes still.

With the fight eking out of him and time running too short to go another round, Cassian chooses to bargain instead. “Give me four hours.”

The Mandalorian’s gloved thumb stays pressed against Cassian’s pulse at his wrist, making him wonder if the other man can feel it thrumming through the leather. He’s used the trick enough himself, to see if someone was lying and to conceal his own alike. Now, with so much adrenaline still coursing through him, Cassian doubts he could slow his heart rate to any more convincing level of calm if he tried.

“I’ll give you three,” the Mandalorian says, letting go of him with finality.

“Deal,” Cassian breathes. He doesn’t hesitate to stand, not bothering to offer the other man a hand up. He straightens out his shirt and his hair where it’s been mussed, praying that sweat hasn’t kriffed up his makeup too terribly. It isn’t something he’s used to worrying about, but well, Vrab has a type. He fishes a compact out of his pocket, checking that the glitter around his eyes isn’t smudged.

The Mandalorian climbs to his feet, his gaze lingering on Cassian as he catches his breath. Cassian knows he has to get back to Anzar quickly, to move before the Mandalorian has a chance to change his mind. 

“I’ll still be around. Watching, if you need backup,” the man speaks, surprising Cassian again. Usually the people who tried to knock him out were far less concerned with his well-being.

“I won’t,” Cassian replies, turning to pry the alley door open without another glance back.


	2. Chapter 2

Din stands in the vacant alley for a moment, replaying the unexpected fight in his mind. His armor and padding had blocked a majority of the other man’s hits, but still, he knows it was a stupid choice to follow him out in the first place. When he’d first seen Vrab at the bar with such an attractive man hanging off him, Din’s first judgment was that he must be an escort. It wasn’t uncommon to see them with types like Vrab. Din was accustomed to the way such civilians usually ran off when he approached, prepared to wait a beat until they got to safety. 

Instead, this man had strode towards Din, had looked him straight in the helmet with a threat on his lips. The audacity had caught Din off guard, certain that no one in the galaxy could really be so naive not to take a Mandalorian decked in full armor seriously. Especially not someone made-up like a holo-star, shimmering gold glitter and kohl lining his dark eyes. The intensity of the gaze had made Din feel inexplicably exposed, the seriousness of it not matching the man’s frivolous exterior in the slightest. Din’s embarrassed to admit the mix of frustration and curiosity that lead him to the fight in the alley. Frustration that had only been exacerbated the moment he had the man pressed back against the door. The feeling wasn’t in line with his usual resolve, the way the man fought back against him forcing Din far from focus. The man nearly getting one over on him, nearly breaking his creed… Din can hardly breathe through the shame of it, knowing it was all on him for allowing the distraction he felt to interfere. Even more shameful was the attraction that had stirred in the midst of it all, something Din refuses to dwell on. 

The man had earned his three hours. Din doesn’t need to know what he’ll gain from that time. Those are the only facts that matter. He centers himself now, rechecking his weapons, the ones he could have used at any point rather than humoring the stranger… Din takes a deep breath and goes back into the club. He stays where he was before, for the first while, keeping eyes on the pair from a distance until it starts to feel shortsighted. For all that Din wants the truce between them to be real, he’s not about to stand around and wait to see if it was a lie. For all he knows, Vrab could already be calling in armed guards to get them both out unscathed.

Din crosses the room easily, the man not giving him a second glance this time when he approaches the bar. He orders a drink just to quiet the bartender from asking too many questions, not caring that he won’t actually be taking a sip. Din takes a seat and settles in to wait and listen. When he glances over, the man is all over Vrab again, pressed into his space, angling himself tantalizingly close.

“You’ll have to make that little stunt up to me later you know,” Vrab threatens.

“I know,” the man says, lifting Vrab’s hand to his mouth to kiss his ring in some show of contrition. “I’m so sorry. I’ll let you keep me waiting all night to make up for it.”

“And you’ll beg for it?”

“Mmm, right now if you want me to, if you’ll let me I’ll—” the man leans in after that, lowering his voice to a whisper that Din can’t make out. Whatever it is, it elicits a pleased smirk from Vrab, his hand traveling lower on the man’s back, past the point where Din can see clearly. Seeing the man lean into the touch, offering himself up so convincingly to a man like Vrab, makes Din’s stomach go tight. The shame of Din’s attraction towards the man only complicates things more, making him want nothing more than to step in and smash Vrab’s face in already and take him in. It’s a wholly selfish feeling, unfounded and unwieldy as it settles in Din’s chest.

Now that he knows the man isn’t giving away his position or calling for reinforcements Din should honor their deal, stick to the edges far where he can’t make out the specifics of the man’s roving hands and mewling words. He should, but he doesn’t, caught up in all the ways the man is transformed by the act. The way he was in the alley might have been an act too, for all he knows, suddenly feeling more vexed at the fact that he knows nothing about the man at all. Not even a name, until he hears Vrab scold one out:

“Not here, Rik. I’m holding you to waiting, like a good boy should.”

“I’ll try to be patient. Tell me more about Arkania? I’d love to go with you if I could. Stars, I’ve never met anyone who owned a whole planet before.”

“Well, there aren’t many as industrious as myself.”

Din purposefully tunes out again, finding it unnecessary to know more than what the guild liaison had told him. The man was a slaver, by all accounts, flagrant enough about his mistreatment of his miners that someone with deep enough pockets finally got fed up and placed the bounty. They might truly be in it for the well being of the workers, or they might be in it for the real estate. Din had known better than to ask.

 _Rik_ wants to know all about it though, leaning in, listening until Vrab finally orders him to accompany him to the dancefloor. The chance to show off the pretty young thing on his arm to the crowd is one the man won’t miss. Din moves from his spot at the bar to keep better sight of them, stationing himself against the back wall instead. From this vantage point, he doesn’t have to pretend he isn’t watching, loathing himself for how keyed up he feels seeing the pair together. Rik is good at putting on a show as he is at fighting, entrancing Vrab entirely as he moves his hips with the beat of the music. The man turns in Vrab’s hold, his back pressing against Vrab’s front while the rich man’s hands rove over his skin. Rik encourages it, not skipping a beat when his eyes land on Din across the room.

Din’s skin heats at the fleeting glance. He wills it away as best he can, owing it to the all too recent feeling of the man against him in the alley. As much as he wants to walk away and get some air away from the sweaty thrall, he knows he has no choice but to wait it out. Rik and Vrab leave the dancefloor eventually, moving to a more secluded booth for another round of drinks and chatter. Din keeps eyes on them but doesn’t dare getting closer this time.

A twi’lek dancer takes an interest in Din, moving around him with an aesthetic beauty he can appreciate even though he has no real interest. He remains impassive, the lack of reaction spurring her to move on. When he glances back over to the booth, Rik and Vrab are gone. For a moment, he feels like the biggest kriffing fool in the galaxy for believing the man who fought him had any honor. Anger sets in as he casts eyes back to the bar and across the crowd, wondering how far they could have gotten. Someone shoulders into him clumsily, giggling as they straighten themselves out. Din looks Rik straight in the eyes, gaze only breaking when Vrab ushers him along impatiently, casting Din a disparaging glance.

“Sorry,” Rik says, to Vrab rather than to Din, not stalling any longer as he heads for the back door in compliance. He and Vrab disappear out into the alley. It hasn’t even been an hour, and yet, Din doesn’t waste time wondering if he should follow. 

Din moves cautiously in the doorway, peering around until he spots the pair. Vrab has taken full advantage of the relative privacy of the shadows, crowding Rik back against the allacrete wall. Din stays stock still for a moment, waiting until Vrab is fully distracted with his lips trailing along Rik’s neck. A graze of teeth against his throat has him gasping as Din approaches, his eyes just catching Din’s over Vrab’s shoulder. The panting sounds of the man’s breathing, coupled with the disheveled look of him, threaten to overwhelm Din even more than the adrenaline as he draws closer. 

“Right there, please,” Rik whispers roughly, keeping Vrab distracted with the plea, nodding subtly at Din in silent signal. Din readies his blaster with one hand, reaching out with the other to grasp Vrab by the shoulder roughly, dragging him backward and shoving him to the ground. Din presses a boot to his chest to keep him down, lining up the shot with ease even as the man struggles.

“What is the meaning of this!?” Vrab sputters in disbelief just before Din pulls the trigger, stunning him and knocking him out cold. 

When Din looks over, Rik is doing up the closure of his pants absently, his own resentful gaze fixed on Vrab still. Unwilling to think of how far Vrab had managed to push things before Din arrived, he clears his throat instead.

“Did you get what you needed?”

“I got enough,” Rik breathes, huffing out a dispassionate laugh, “didn’t even take the whole three hours.”

In the brief words Din can already make out a shift in his accent, further proof of just how much of an act this all must be for him. He sounds far from the prissy Core callboy Din had taken him for, unplaceable without more to go on, but familiar still. 

“Made my job a lot easier,” Din admits, unsure of what to say beyond it, certain that the man wouldn’t offer up details even if Din pressed for more. It doesn’t matter anyway, he’d wanted a simple job and simple was what he got in the end. The only left thing to do was haul Vrab back to the ship and slip him into carbon-freeze for the journey back to Nevarro.

“You’re not going to kill him?” 

The nonchalant way Rik asks does nothing to mask his motivation.

“It was optional,” Din responds honestly, willing to follow wherever this plays out. Rik bites his bottom lip, brow furrowed as he considers the words. After a beat, he gestures to the holstered weapon at Din’s hip.

“Your blaster...can I?”

Din hands it over and watches Rik switch the setting from stun to kill deftly. He shoots the man on the ground point blank. The sharp assurance of the action should be a cold warning to Din, blatant proof of just how dangerous he is. In spite of it, Din still can’t help feeling drawn in, certain in his bones that the kill is justified.

Rik wipes his prints from the blaster with his shirt and hands it back, appearing to breathe easier already now that Vrab is dead. For the first time in the night his shoulders relax somewhat, the lack of posturing making him appear more vulnerable. If he’s still wary of Din, he shows it less, running a hand back through his hair as he slumps against the wall again.

“He’d seen my face,” Rik speaks lowly, explaining himself entirely as an afterthought. “If he woke—”

“You don’t have to explain.”

Rik doesn’t thank Din, he doesn’t say anything at all. With the body getting cold between them there was little time to linger. Even with a valid bounty puck, people would ask questions. Din studies the man before him, as if just looking long enough could offer some insight. Rik seems unperturbed by his notice, his gaze just as acute. There’s a tension between them that Din forces himself to break.

“I should get Vrab back to my ship.”

“And I should disappear,” Rik agrees quietly without actually moving to do so.

It should be the end of it, a deal well made and honored between them. Outside of a covert it felt like a rare thing to find, someone who was on the same page who appeared to work in the same concise way as Din. Especially not someone so gorgeous, in a way that has nothing to do with the makeup smeared on his face. Physical appearance meant so little in Mandalorian ranks, with sigils and armor the only place for pride. Still, it’s never stopped Din from recognizing what he likes in someone. Aside from a few fumbling intimacies in the past, shared only with fellow Mandalorians, Din has had little opportunity to chase such desires, making the feeling grating at his self control even harder to contend with.

“You have someplace to go?” Din stalls, unsure if Rik is waiting to take a hint or just waiting for Din to leave first. 

“I do,” Rik says, watching the way Din watches him. Suspicion edges back into the words and the man’s bearing, misunderstanding urging Din to reword the question.

“Someplace… you _want_ to go?” 

Rik can take it or leave it however he wants. His eyebrows raise at Din slightly, and for a moment, Din is sure he’s made a fool of himself. The notion is backed up when Rik finally speaks. “Not about to lead you to my safehouse.”

“Of course not,” Din shakes his head, hoping the man will leave it at that. “I should go.”

“You said that before,” Rik comments with a slight smirk. “Where’s your ship docked?”

Din’s disappointment is overtaken by anticipation as he gives the details. 

“Give me an hour,” Rik says, and then reconsiders. “Maybe less.”

“Alright,” Din responds, with nothing left to do but watch as Rik walks away. He’s not sure what will come of it, good or bad, but he’s willing to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

Cassian makes his way back to the safehouse easily enough, dodging patrols down side streets out of habit more than any real concern in them taking an interest. By accounts of the bounty hunter’s guild, he hadn’t committed a crime at all, the Mandalorian’s presence turning out an unexpected gift that freed him of culpability. Cassian could have handled it otherwise, but still, can’t help feeling a bit grateful for the way things have turned out. Not having to sleep with Vrab and not having to disguise his death in the morning left Cassian’s night open. Open enough that he’s somehow actually considering going back to find the Mandalorian and his ship.

As he strips away the glitzy image he’d conjured for Anzar, the put-on sensuality of the role falls away just as well, leaving only Cassian to look himself in the mirror, plain-faced and aching to be touched. The want frustrates him more than anything, knowing that nothing good rarely ever came of such a selfish feeling. The Mandalorian might not even want this version of him, Cassian reasons without bitterness, all too aware of how easy it was to fall for an image. His job wouldn’t be so easy otherwise. The decent share of information he’d managed to get from Vrab without hardly giving anything back was proof enough of that.

Cassian brushes his hair back into order, wondering just what the Mandalorian had seen in him that sparked the offer. The adrenaline and chemistry of their fight was an easy enough explanation, or perhaps just the fact that he’d been stuck all night watching Cassian throw himself at Vrab so enticingly, both ruthless parts of Cassian that didn’t wholly fit within the image in front of him now. Stepping away from the sink, Cassian redresses himself without allowing himself to think it over further. Whether the night ends in another fight or a fuck, he reasons, it’ll be better than sitting around on his own for six hours waiting for extraction.

It doesn’t take long to get from the safehouse to the nearby docking bays, with Cassian slipping through the busy Cinnagar streets with little notice. It was one of the things he liked about taking jobs so deep in the Core, the fact that the cities never seem to sleep. Places like this helped him to keep focus the whole way through a mission, even now with all objectives completed cleanly.

The only risk ahead of him now is a risk that Cassian can handle, so long as he plays things right. The fact that the Mandalorian could have killed him already twice and hadn’t stood, the truth warranting something just below trust from Cassian, urging him along to approach what he can only assume is the Mandalorian’s ship. It’s not the prettiest Cassian’s seen and hardly the most subtle, the old gunship out of date by nearly a half century and showing it. When Cassian considers it alongside the Mandalorian’s well worn armor, it seems fitting.

Not knowing who’s aboard, Cassian stays at the bottom of the ship’s lowered ramp, analyzing his surroundings for any chance this might just turn out to be a trap after all. Compared to the hum of the streets the wide bay is quiet in a way that makes Cassian uneasy. Not quite enough to turn back, but close. When the Mandalorian finally appears at the top of the ramp, he seems surprised to find Cassian, if the way he straightens up at the sight of Cassian is anything to go by. He’s still done up in full armor, no sign of relaxation to him, appearing to have taken the hour they’ve spent apart tending to anything but his own comfort. 

“Hope you haven’t waited long,” the Mandalorian says, seeming more curious than apologetic.

“I haven’t,” Cassian replies. “Still interested?”

He asks outright just to get it over with, watching the Mandalorian for any reaction and coming up with little, unable to discern just yet what the tilt of his helmet might mean in this context.

“Yes,” the Mandalorian admits plainly after a beat. “If you are too... come on.” The man gestures for Cassian to come aboard, turning away back into the ship without even watching if he does. It might feel like a slight if Cassian didn’t know better, that leaving his back open to Cassian was more a sign of trust than anything he’d be willing to offer himself. Cassian takes it, focusing a little less on the weight of the blaster strapped against his ankle. The interior of the ship is just as plain and dinged up as the exterior, the former shine of the surfaces edged in a sheen of rust.

The Mandalorian stops ahead of Cassian, in what appears to be the closest thing to a living quarters the gunship has, a small space just past the cargo hold. There’s a sleeping berth with a small cot tucked into it, set longways to suit the shape of the ship. It hardly seems designed for comfort, but Cassian knows well enough not to comment on the fact. He didn’t come here for comfort anyway. The way the Mandalorian’s helmet tips towards Cassian when he enters the space tells him little about what’s on the man’s mind, leaving the open question pending between them of what will happen next.

When the Mandalorian speaks, his voice is less forceful than it had been at the club or even on the ramp. “Would you like a drink?” he asks, gesturing to a bottle of blue spotchka that’s tucked into the alcove beside him. The contents are half emptied from what he can tell, and Cassian has enough self preservation not to accept unsealed drinks from strangers. Coming on a bounty hunter’s ship of his own volition was deathwish enough for the night.

“I don’t think so,” Cassian says, with the Mandalorian picking up on his distrust easily.

“It’s not… I’d take a drink to prove it’s not spiked or anything but, I’d have to leave the room and it kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?” Cassian's brow furrows before he can control the expression, putting together the pieces even as the Mandalorian clarifies his stance more seriously. “The helmet. It stays on.”

The Mandalorian’s reaction in the alley makes more sense in retrospect, with far more weight to it than just not wanting to reveal himself in the open. Casting off his jacket nonchalantly, Cassian meets the angle of the man’s expectant gaze.

“I can work with that,” Cassian allows, attempting to diffuse the tense line of the Mandalorian's shoulders. It’s becoming clearer to Cassian with each moment that the man might be more out of his depth than his casual offer had let on, his manner lacking calculated effort to move things along. Setting aside reservations and the years of training bearing down on him, Cassian grabs the bottle of spotchka from the alcove and takes a drink after all.

The Mandalorian watches him as he uncorks the bottle to swallow down a long sip of the blue liquid. Cassian is relieved for the warmth of the alcohol, only now realizing how cold the walk across the city had left him. His drinks at the cantina had been watered down most of the night, half drank and easily forgotten as he worked Anzar for intel. With the Mandalorian’s visor still fixed towards him, he lowers the bottle from his lips, chasing after the last drop of liquid with his tongue just to tease the man’s interest. 

It’s strange not to be able to make out an exact expression from the man, but at the same time it’s also a relief. A break from constantly analyzing the way he’s being watched. It forces Cassian to use his words rather than his observations, only able to gauge so much from the blank helmet. 

“When you asked me here before, what did you have in mind?”

The Mandalorian’s body language tells more of the story now, from the unconscious flex of the man's hand at his side to the way he shifts his weight, all undeniably expectant. 

“Whatever you want,” the Mandalorian answers, his voice sounding rougher than before. It's all the encouragement Cassian needs to step closer, knowing the man will have no compunction about stopping him if he changes his mind. Mandalorian takes a step of his own, unflinching when Cassian splays his palm against the cool metal of the man's chestplate.

“I want you to keep the armor on.”

The Mandalorian's hand comes up to cover Cassian's on the chestplate, the texture of the leather brushing over his knuckles as close to intimacy as the man’s offered thus far. For all that they'd been pressed together before in the fight, it feels absurd to hyperfocus on such a small point of contact. Cassian can't help it, still on the edge and unsure if the Mandalorian's obedience will be enough to see him through. 

“I can do that,” the Mandalorian breathes, sounding almost amused. Without the foreplay of kissing, Cassian has to think on his next moves more. He slips his palm out from under the Mandalorian’s, taking the man’s gloved hand in his own he tugs at the covering, removing it fully when the man doesn’t protest the action. He does the same with the other hand, grasping it loosely and bringing it up to his lips, smirking gently at the soft gasp that the scant touch of lips elicits. While it seems apparent the man is nowhere as exacting as Cassian had hoped, it still feels good to know he still has some effect on the man. Cassian’s eyes drift over him. lingering where he can see the man’s interest becoming more apparent. Upping the ante, Cassian edges closer, glancing a hand downward over armor, rubbing over his cock through the fabric.

The Mandalorian presses into the touch with an encouraging gasp, reaching out to grip Cassian's hips and drawing him even closer. Cassian feels a thrill go through him at the tightening of his grip there, wondering if maybe he might be coaxed to put his strength to use after all. Cassian slows his touch, easing off just enough to tease, daring the Mandalorian to demand more.

"Come on," the Mandalorian's soft urging comes out breathy, head tipping back just enough to reveal the bare line of his throat. Cassian can’t resist leaning in to taste, the salt sweat flavor of it just settling on his tongue when he’s jarred by a hand pressing against his chest, shoving him back with all the opposing force he’s craved. Cassian tries to crowd in again, to take advantage of whatever momentum the touch has stirred. The Mandalorian pushes him again, backing Cassian up against the wall defensively. 

_“Yes,”_ Cassian can’t help but sigh out, the reaction finally triggering some recognition in the other man. Cassian shifts in the Mandalorian’s hold and this time the Mandalorian puts more pressure, his vambrance digging in harshly where it rests across Cassian’s chest. The press of his thigh plate is just as enticing, enough that Cassian can’t resist canting his against the encroaching weight of the man. He slides his free hand into the tight space between them, feeling bold enough to dip his hand beneath the Mandalorian’s waistband this time. The first touch of Cassian’s fingers against his cock has the man jolting a bit in his hold, a rasped out curse just barely audible through the helmet.

“Good?” Cassian dares, not pausing to wait for an answer as he strokes over the man deftly. 

“Yeah,” the Mandalorian sighs, helmet dipping to press against Cassian’s shoulders, pinning him in place almost but not quite enough. Cassian ruts against the Mandalorian’s thigh, testing the bounds of his movement, craving just enough to hint pointedly at his next request. He stills the motion of his hand, thumbing over the head of the Mandalorian’s cock only lightly, the teasing touch earning him the man’s full and impatient attention.

“Do you have lube?” Cassian asks, the question eliciting a catch of breath from the man that Cassian can’t deny appreciating. 

“I have… soap,” the Mandalorian says, sounding slightly abashed at the admittance. It would be endearing, if Cassian was allowing himself to feel that way. Still, he can’t quite bite back an amused smile at the confession.

“Glad I brought something a bit better then,” Cassian replies lightly, removing his hand completely from the Mandalorian’s pants, not missing the way the man seems to shiver at the last glancing touch. The Mandalorian takes the hint from there, backing off to let Cassian go. Cassian finds the lube easily in the pocket of his jacket, setting it aside on the table as he moves to slip off his shirt, seeing no use in drawing things out any further. He reaches for his belt next, undoing it and adding it to the pile at his feet. 

The Mandalorian watches Cassian, one shoulder pressed against the wall, nearly in the same spot where Cassian had left him. Arching an eyebrow, Cassian gestures loosely at him.

“You could lose some layers too,” Cassian allows, refusing to feel embarrassed for his desire. “Just keep the top stuff on, the chestplate, and the...”

“Vambraces?” the Mandalorian provides, rubbing a hand over one of the metal pieces at his wrist as he does. Cassian’s gaze catches on the smooth movement, craving the cool metal all the more against his skin. 

“Yes, those.”

“Alright,” the Mandalorian agrees quietly, undoing his own belt and setting it aside. He reaches for the buckle at his thigh and falters. His attention to Cassian’s instruction could be empowering, if that was something Cassian was after. 

“These have to go if you want my pants off...”

“I do,” Cassian answers lightly, stepping out of his own pants, not missing the way the Mandalorian’s helmet tilts to follow the motion, taking him in from head to toe. All that’s left is his underwear, the current set a bit tighter and more decorative than Cassian would choose for himself, the last remnant of whoever ‘Rik’ was meant to be. The Mandalorian is blatantly distracted now, unbuckling one thigh plate and setting it aside only to fumble over the other. Cassian takes pity on him, with a bit of pleasure too, crossing the small distance and sinking to his knees. It was an outcome he’d expected of a night with Anzar, but not like this. The chill of the metal floor is harsh against his skin, biting in a way that makes it easier not to dwell on such things.

"I can do it myself," the Mandalorian protests at the first brush of Cassian's hand against his own on the leather strap still affixing the armor to his thigh. Cassian pauses, wondering if this, like the helmet, had some stronger mandate behind it.

“Do you want to?” Cassian challenges, not really minding one way or another, so long as the Mandalorian picks up the pace. Rather than answering, the Mandalorian moves his hand aside, allowing Cassian access to slide his hands over the back of his thigh and undo the fastener there. The armor comes away easily, and Cassian hands it to the Mandalorian, not wanting to offend him by tossing it aside. 

“Thanks,” the man breathes, setting it aside with the other plate. With that done, Cassian is too impatient to bother removing the man’s boots just yet, reaching up to tug at the waistband of his pants instead. Touching the man before had given him a fair notion of the man’s size. The eager curve of the man’s cock makes Cassian crave more. In an impulse that hadn't been part of his plan, Cassian finds himself leaning in to taste. The Mandalorian anticipates the motion, reaching out to settle a rough hand at Cassian's shoulder, bracing himself and urging Cassian closer all at once. Cassian complies, mouthing over the man's shaft, spurred on only further by the low curses that escape the Mandalorian's lips. Looking up at the man from this angle Cassian catches sight of the barest sliver of skin beneath the helmet, the man's jaw lined in stubble as his head tips back against the wall.

With the Mandalorian already so worked up, Cassian can’t resist swallowing him down. The reaction he gets is worth it, with the Mandalorian’s hand coming up to tangle harshly in Cassian’s hair, grasping without overtaking control. Cassian breathes through his nose, bobbing up and down a few times before he eases off. If he was trying to get the man off quickly he could keep going, keep urging the Mandalorian to push for more. As it is, he has his own pressing needs in mind, this brief interlude only serving as a diversion from what Cassian really wants. Cassian edges away unapologetically, wiping at his mouth with one hand and adjusting his own painfully hard cock with the other as he settles backward a bit. The movement dislodges the Mandalorian’s fingers from his hair, the man not hesitating to let go completely and return his hands to his own sides. Half done up in armor with his pants tugged down as far as they’d go with his boots still on, the Mandalorian is a desperate sight to behold.

With a resurgent swell of hunger, Cassian pulls himself to his feet, finding and uncapping the lube he'd set aside just moments ago. He uses it first to slick up his cock, sliding a hand beneath the waistband of his underthings without even glancing back to the Mandalorian. He palms over himself with a loose grip, the feeling just enough to keep himself from rushing too much. He's relieved to hear the shuffle of the man's boots being kicked off and cast aside, a sign that they're both on the same page. Cassian shoves his underwear off, kicking them away just as haphazardly.

He coats his hand in lube, tilting forward against the nearest wall for balance as he reaches back to ready himself for the rest, already somewhat loose from a bit of precautionary prep he’d done before meeting with Anzar. He clenches his eyes shut as his fingers slide inside himself, adjusting to the feeling all over again. Even without his boots on, the Mandalorian’s footfalls give away his approach easily. Cassian opens his eyes, playing up a shiver as he does. Cassian eyes him expectantly over his shoulder, some part of him still waiting for the man to finally lose patience with all the stop-and-go between them. In defiance of the expectation, the Mandalorian shares his interest with little demand, only daring as far as to reach out and trace over the small of Cassian’s back.

“Can I?” the Mandalorian asks, his voice hushed. 

"If you want to," Cassian answers, trying not to show just how intrigued he is by the offer. 

Picking up the discarded pack of lubricant from the floor, the Mandalorian wavers a moment longer than expected. The hesitation causes Cassian to look over his shoulder, unsure what the man is looking for from him. _“Please,”_ Cassian sighs out in addendum, pressing his now free hand against the wall and arching his back a bit more pointedly.

Cassian glances over his shoulder just to see the way the other man’s flush has edged down past the helmet, faint pink blooming across his exposed throat. The look finally seems to spur the Mandalorian into motion, the man coating his fingers amply before he reaches out. His fingers trail over the curve of Cassian's ass, hesitant but with an intent that has Cassian readying himself for the first fumbling stretch. The Mandalorian's fingers are even more calloused than his own, thicker and far more satisfying for Cassian to rock back against when the Mandalorian finally makes good on his offer. 

Cassian’s encouragement is met with an approving sound, the feel of the Mandalorian's heat and hardness edging closer to brush against him. Again, the man settles his free hand at the small of Cassian's back, the touch turning into a more stabilizing hold when Cassian jolts. A burst of bright sensation washes over him as the Mandalorian presses in further, fingers curling inside him just enough to hit their mark.

Just that spark has Cassian running hot with impatience again, groaning when the Mandalorian repeats the motion knowingly. "Good?" he has the audacity to ask, his fingers shifting again as he does in a way that makes it nearly impossible to respond.

"It's... it's enough, c'mon."

As soon as the man has eased his fingers out, Cassian turns towards him, pleased when the man wastes no time to crowd him back against the wall, hands sliding under Cassian’s thighs to lift him. Cassian’s sure there’ll be bruises where the vambraces dig into his skin as he’s hauled up into the man’s hold. Cassian doesn’t shy away from the pressure, wrapping his legs around the man more securely and curling his arms around the man’s shoulders to keep balance. The press of the Mandalorian’s chestplate against his bare chest, combined with the way their cocks brush against each other at the angle, has Cassian groaning out a curse. For all the distraction, he’s still careful not to dislodge the helmet with his touch, as much out of respect as for the fact that he might not survive anymore stalling between them. With Cassian secured in his arms, the Mandalorian hauls him over to his bunk, setting him down at the edge of the mattress.

In the show of strength, they’ve only crossed a short distance, amusing Cassian nearly as much as it fuels his need. This feeling, being tossed down and hovered over by the Mandalorian’s imposing frame, is just what he’s wanted all along. Unwinding his arms from around the man’s shoulders, Cassian lets his touch roam, clutching at the edge of Mandalorian’s chestplate to urge him closer when he tries to straighten up.

“Just give me a second,” the Mandalorian promises, reaching up to gently uncurl Cassian’s fingers from their hold. Cassian releases him begrudgingly, unwrapping his legs from around the Mandalorian’s waist as well. The man steps away and Cassian takes the chance to slide up the mattress a little bit, not the whole way into the hold but enough that he’s not perched so precariously on the hard edge. Resting back on his elbows, he watches the man roll on a condom, produced from a small pouch in a discarded pack. 

“You have those stocked but not lube?” The man shrugs, only slightly abashed.

“Shut up,” the Mandalorian scolds gently, finally striding closer to leaning over Cassian again. Cassian reaches out for him again when he’s in range, gripping the fabric of the Mandalorian’s shirt to reel him in. Cassian's ready to put up with more teasing, prepared to beg if he really has to, but instead the Mandalorian obliges him, following Cassian’s momentum with just as much need. Catching himself on one hand, the Mandalorian uses the other to leverage Cassian's hips up higher again, lining himself up with Cassian wordlessly. The man presses forward, slow at first, adjusting to the tightness of Cassian's body as he sinks inside. It's still too gentle, Cassian thinks distantly, the initial rush of pressure and heat making him gasp all the same. 

Cassian winds his legs around the man again, as best he can at the present angle, digging his heels into the small of the man’s back as best as he can. The move has the man thrusting more roughly in instinct, cursing as his control falters, all the strength Cassian had fought back against in the alleyway now thoroughly focused into each move he makes. The Mandalorian’s fingers dig into Cassian’s thigh, adjusting the angle to better pin him, pulling back just to drive in again with more force. Cassian lets out a moan, the sound involuntary and desperate, and the man takes it as a cue to repeat the motion.

They build up a rhythm together, both aching, not wasting time with more words where grunts and curses suffice. Cassian brings his arms up to encircle the Mandalorian, fingers gripping at the edge of the backplate of his armor, the heavy press of his body and the metal finally making Cassian’s thoughts go quiet. 

Leaning up, he presses his face into the crook of the Mandalorian's shoulder, lips brushing over the man's neck as he pants. Cassian kisses the spot experimentally, the same place where he'd licked before, and this time the Mandalorian doesn't shy away. He trembles slightly, thrust only faltering for an instant before he bares his neck even more to Cassian.

"Please," the Mandalorian breathes, and Cassian mouths over the skin of his throat indulgently, drawing out a soft sound from the man with a drag of teeth. For all the heat between them, this is what makes the Mandalorian shiver in his arms, his thrusts growing more frantic. Sensing how close they both are to the edge, Cassian reaches down to take himself in hand with sure strokes, the Mandalorian only letting up just enough space between them to allow it. The angle is just right, and Cassian hangs on, the taste of the Mandalorian’s sweat still on his tongue in conjunction with the way his body overwhelms Cassian finally undoing him as he comes, spilling over his own fist. He clenches down against the Mandalorian as he does, the pressure just enough to send him over the edge with only a few more thrusts.

The Mandalorian avoids crushing Cassian just barely as his body slumps forward, balancing himself on elbows as he audibly catches his breath. The helmet can’t make it easy, the same way it doesn’t make the afterglow entirely comfortable for either of them. Cassian shuts his eyes, his own respirations evening out into a calm silence. With the Mandalorian’s helmet digging into his shoulder slightly, Cassian feels wrung out and sated, body still aching pleasantly when the Mandalorian moves to pull out. The man’s hands linger over Cassian’s thigh, squeezing once in a touch that’s almost affectionate. 

Cassian smiles, keeping his eyes shut even when the Mandalorian’s weight leaves him completely, not quite ready to show himself out just yet, for all that he knows he should. He listens as the Mandalorian climbs out of the bunk, padding around closeby and tossing a cloth Cassian's way which he uses blindly in a few passes over his hand and stomach before tossing it right back. The man snorts, the sound closer again, and Cassian peers an eye open to see him. The Mandalorian lingers at the foot of the bed, unclasping one pauldron and then the other, his vambraces already removed somewhere before he’d come to watch Cassian. Once they’re discarded, the Mandalorian stills, gaze fixed on Cassian.

“Shut your eyes again,” he orders softly, and Cassian complies. He can hear the hiss of the helmet being removed, and if the man was a mark, this is where Cassian would be forced to break his trust, to get an advantage over him just by memorizing his features. He isn't though, Cassian breathes in relief, throwing an arm over his eyes just to put the other man better at ease. Cassian doesn't owe him anything, but still, it feels right. The less he knows about the man, the better it is for both of them anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

With his helmet off Din feels off kilter, pulling the rest of his armor off with practiced ease. He shouldn’t be without it at all with the stranger still so close, but somewhere in the rush between them he’d let his guard down in more ways than one. He takes a moment to slip the bottoms of his flight suit back on, feeling better with less skin exposed but still far out of his depth when it comes to knowing what to do next.

Din knows nothing about the man in his bunk, no more than a clearly fake name and the way he sounds when he comes, and he's been asked nothing about himself in return. The armor probably spoke enough on Din’s part, but still, the lack of question and the way the man had offered up control so easily to Din was like nothing he’s ever experienced before. Din knows better than to believe what they have between them is trust, but it's something. It's a truce, not unlike their impasse at the club, one that Din feels certain will hold just a bit longer. He doesn't care if it's foolish to think so, refusing to mull over all the ways he's broken the creed by inviting the man back in the first place. With the press of the man’s lips against his skin still burning in Din’s memory and the surge of endorphins that followed, Din embraces the risk.

The man lays bare in Din's bunk, arm thrown over his eyes as a sign that he's taken Din's creed seriously, and just that is enough to make Din pause longer than he should. He watches the rise and fall of his breathing, gaze catching on the bruises already forming all over him in the soft places where Din’s armor had dug in. He’d feel them for days and have no choice but to remember Din, for good or bad, and Din would be left with nothing.

In the face of that fact, Din feels suddenly overwhelmed with the need to sate one last desire, something to get this whole brush with intimacy out of his system. He’s never been kissed, never even dreamed of it after so long surrounded by faceless warriors like himself. Having the man’s lips on his neck before was as closed as he’s ever dared, and now... Din picks up his helmet and raises one knee onto the bed, pausing to speak again and hoping the shameful hesitation he can’t tamp down doesn’t come through. "Could you keep your eyes closed?"

“Okay,” the man says simply, and the rasp of his voice is enough to urge Din forward before he can second guess the impulse. He clamors into the bunk, clutching the helmet in one hand all the while, for all that it makes the limited space even more awkward to adjust to. The man turns onto his side, back pressed flat against the bunk wall, and Din mirrors the position, letting the helmet rest between them and not missing the way the man shivers at the press of the beskar against his bare stomach. 

The man’s eyes are still shut, his features relaxed, with no complaint for the crowded lack of space between them. Their knees knock together and Din shifts, allowing the other man's leg to settle more comfortably against his own, their thighs pressing together in a way that would be overwhelming if Din wasn’t already spent. His hair is disheveled against Din's pillow, softer brown than Din had realized through the filter of his helmet's visor. All of Din's reasoned intent stalls out, caught up in the novelty of just watching the man up close, almost daring him to open his eyes so he can see them without distortion too. His fingers tighten around the hard edge of his helmet at the blasphemous thought. Din pushes it down with the rest of his forbidden desires. His initial notion still remains stubbornly enough to drown out his doubts. Din leans into the man’s space and kisses him in his own kind’s sense of the word, unashamed to ease himself into it by gently pressing their foreheads together. The man nudges back just as lightly, and for a moment Din thinks just this might be enough, with the press of the man’s face so close already making Din feel far out of bounds. 

Unaware of or perhaps in opposition to Din’s hesitance the man eases forward a bit more, the motion making their noses bump. He seeks out Din’s lips and with the first light brush of the man’s mouth against his own, Din stops trying to resist. He kisses back, eyes slipping shut as he sinks into the unfamiliar sensation, trying and failing to categorize the emotion it spurs. Din takes as much as he can from it, keeping his grip on his helmet just to stop himself from turning it into something more. The man takes the lead once again, helping Din compensate for his lack of experience, keeping the press of lips soft and steadier than Din feels as his heart beats hard in his chest. With a gasp for breath, Din finally draws himself away, swallowing hard and opening his eyes to peer at the man. He still hasn't broken his promise to Din, eyes remaining obediently closed. Din fumbles to put his helmet back on, banishing any further want before he can act on it again. 

“You can look now,” Din announces.

“Might not, I’m pretty comfortable,” the man says with a slight smirk, sliding closer to rest his head against Din’s shoulder now that the helmet is no longer between them. Din brings a hand to the man’s chest, overwhelmed by the warmth at his side and at a loss for the right words to set things straight without being unkind. 

“I have to deliver the bounty by tomorrow.”

The man tenses in Din's touch, drawing back and opening his eyes. Whatever softness there had been to his words before is fading fast. "I didn't mean it like that," he says quietly, watching Din for a long beat until he nods. 

“Okay,” Din breathes, burying all thought of his embarrassing assumption as best he can. Din expects the man to push him away, to take the hint too harshly and leave now. Instead, he settles down, resting his head on Din’s shoulder once again. After a few heartbeats, Din moves his hand to the small of the man's back, stroking over his skin without overthinking the gesture. The man accepts it, burying his face in Din's neck, content just to be still a while longer in spite of Din's lack of tact. 

From the fierceness of their fight and the killer instinct the man had shown against Vrab to the pliant body now sinking into Din’s touch, Din finds it hard to describe the man as any one thing. Perhaps that was purposeful, obfuscation forged into the man the same way Din’s creed was forged into him as a child. The quiet strength of him is familiar as Din’s own, or at least he’d like to think it is, all too aware that it might just be projection on his part. 

“Rik isn’t your real name,” Din says with more curiosity than accusation, attempting to learn something true about the man in his arms in one last ditch effort. The man doesn’t shy away from the assumption, huffing a breath of laughter against Din’s neck.

“I don’t know yours either,” the man points out.

“Do you want to?” 

“No,” the man replies without hesitation. “It would only complicate things, don’t you think?”

“Right,” Din breathes, aware of the underlying warning beneath the words. The bruises were all he wanted from Din, the release something they had both been lucky enough to find with each other at the right place and right time. Din had his kiss and it would have to be enough. The exchange fractures the mood between them, and it’s not long before the man is pulling away, extracting himself from Din’s arms and climbing out of the bunk to find his clothes. Din lies there a moment, staring up at the rusted ceiling of the berth before he rises too.

Rather than hovering, Din stays seated at the edge of the bunk, watching the man as he slips on his shirt, not bothering to retrieve his underwear from the hold’s floor before he tugs his pants on swiftly. As the man tugs on his jacket, Din looks away, trying to play up disinterest rather than reveal the sudden loneliness sinking in. Din spots the half-full bottle of lube at his feet where it’d been cast aside. He leans down to pick it up, offering it back to the man.

“You forgot this,” Din says, immediately feeling awkward.

“Keep it,” the man laughs, smiling genuinely. “The next guy will be grateful.”

“I guess so.” Din shrugs vaguely, setting the small bottle down on the mattress beside him, deciding to wait until the man is gone to toss it. 

The man slides his boots back on, fully clothed and taking quiet stock of himself before he looks Din’s way again. Though there's nothing keeping him from leaving straight away, the man still takes the time to drift towards Din again, stepping close enough to stand in the vee of Din's legs. There's an acuteness to his glance that makes Din feel exposed, and when his hand comes up to squeeze Din's shoulder, it's difficult to keep from reacting. 

"Rik Orsino was never at that club, if anyone asks.”

“I understand,” Din says quietly. The hand still resting on Din's shoulder flexes again, in a gesture that might just be affectionate, before he lets go.

“Good luck delivering your bounty.”

The man’s parting words are punctuated with a final intense look before he goes. Din listens to his footsteps fade and tries not to mind the quiet in their wake. He goes to the cockpit to escape the thought, powering the ship up absently, wanting nothing more than to collect his credits swiftly and put this whole night far behind him. With no doubt the other man will do the same, Din sinks into the pilot's seat and refuses to look back.


End file.
